


The Devil's Stitch

by LillysoftheValley



Series: Allsorts - A Collection of Assorted GO Ficlets [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fiber Arts, Gen, Knitting, One Shot, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillysoftheValley/pseuds/LillysoftheValley
Summary: The devil's stitch: a purposeful mistake in a hand-knit garment to prevent bad luck.For all his nervous energy, you'd never think Crowley would be the one to pick up a pair of knitting needles. But he's been doing this since before there were needles. Needed something to do with his hands. And you know what they say about idle hands.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Allsorts - A Collection of Assorted GO Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650484
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	The Devil's Stitch

For all his nervous energy, you'd never think Crowley would be the one to pick up a pair of knitting needles. But he's been doing this since before there were needles. Needed something to do with his hands. And you know what they say about idle hands.

He spun, at first, when there was wool to spin, hypnotized by the spindle as it twisted the fibers into one long strand. The spinning wheel had been a notable improvement in terms of speed, but there was something soothing about the old drop spindle. (He was _not_ the reason that fairy tale caught on - the one about the baby and the golden thread - but he had been at least partly responsible for the other one, with the girl asleep for centuries).

Then, there was the question of what to do with all that yarn. At first, everything was done by hand, back and forth, over and under, and difficult to manage on one's own. Winding up a skein took two people, looping the threads around fingers and arms. The touching reminded him too much of something, and he wasn't sure he liked it. 

But then there were bits of wood or bone to hold the threads, and shuttles and looms, the first hooks and needles, and he could do it by himself. Crowley did take credit for that time Penelope locked herself away to work on that tapestry. Served those suitors right.

And then, of course, there were the colors. All the stewing, and dyeing, and _plants_ \- those little bits of Eden that had spilled out over the wall and covered the earth in all their lovely, twining, flowering bits of color. He liked the experimentation of it, how a little bit of leaf, or bark, or petal could turn yards of plain fiber into a vibrant yellow, or a deep green, or a red so thick it looked like - something he also didn't like to think about too much. Black took the most work, but that was why he liked it.

Speaking of fiber, there was more than wool. The humans figured out how to spin all sorts: flax and cotton and silk, and from other animals, too. Thick worsted plys, whisper thin threads, and everything in between. And once they got metal figured out, well - there was no looking back.

Nowadays, Crowley can lose himself in the craft store poking through all the skeins, judging all the needles. (He singlehandedly saved the local establishment from bankruptcy with his patronage when they moved to the South Downs). Bamboo is, of course, best for light fingering weights, but a good Guernsey sweater demands a sturdy steel. Nylon is an improvement for smoothness, and the extendable ones were a revelation for large pieces, but he always preferred the sound the metal ones make. As for the yarn: synthetic holds up well in the wash (he may have been on the planning committee for the whole Polyester thing), and cottons are best for summer wearables; bamboo silk was a neat invention he was rather impressed by, and one could never go wrong with a quality mohair for softness and halo (yes, he understands the irony), but alpaca is still his favorite.

Crowley sits still when he knits. His thoughts don't race around, his body isn't compelled to always be _moving_ in some weird and uncomfortable way. All he has to do is follow the pattern and his hands do the rest. He spends hours on the sofa in the back of the shop, needles flying, the little clicks keeping steady rythym. He can complete a scarf or pair of socks in a matter of hours. He managed to get the hang of stranding so he could make them in Aziraphale's tartan. He can whip up a sweater in a couple weeks, or keep adding granny squares to an afghan until it could cover a football pitch.

Aziraphale had tried to learn, he really had, but his fingers weren't nimble enough and no matter how he held the needles, his hands would cramp after a few minutes. And it was so boring! Rows and rows and rows of the same thing over and over. He had started a scarf sometime shortly after the Arrangement as a way to pass the time up to Edinburgh (it didn't help). It was a lumpy mess of dropped stitches in a disappointing brown and he only managed about three rows a decade for the next fifty years or so before he finally chucked the lot, all two and a half inches of it. When Crowley had offered to teach him again, he had refused gently. So Crowley had offered him a deal: one stitch, just one, on every project Crowley made. Aziraphale had at first demurred, insisting it would ruin the thing, but Crowley had insisted. 

_It's a tradition, angel. Put in a mistake on purpose to thwart the devil._ This was said with that cheeky grin Crowley was so fond of using, so Aziraphale never really knew if he had been the cause of that particular superstition. He preferred to think of it as a sign that what was on the needles had been made with love, by both of them, and so when prompted would carefully take the needles from Crowley and, tongue poking between his teeth, carefully thread the yarn through the loop and create a stitch of his very own. No matter if it was too loose or too tight, if it twisted or was through the back loop instead of the front, Crowley left it in. And maybe it did thwart something, because Crowley had made those high black socks himself (silk, obviously), and he had been wearing a string vest Crowley had gifted him one Christmas sometime in the 70's, and they both came out of those trials all right in the end. On the whole, Aziraphale preferred to let Crowley do the knitting, enjoying the soft click of the needles while he read.

And Crowley knitted. He could hole up for weeks in his flat and emerge with armfuls of sweaters and shawls and socks. He could get his head around the most complicated stitch patterns with charts that would make Aziraphale dizzy. He could even make something up as he went along and somehow it would always come out. Crowley liked to experiment, he didn't mind frogging half a dozen rows or the whole piece if it came down to it. He would just grin, poke his glasses up higher on his nose, and try again. This meant Aziraphale had more sweater vests than he could ever wear, but he kept all of them because Crowley had made them. Some were a bit too big, some didn't have quite enough ease around the gussets, and some of the patterns were a little lopsided, but he loved all of them. Any extras Crowley would "dump on the corner" which meant he took them around to the local shelters and handed them out personally. 

Crowley had knitted at the Dowlings, too. More than one ball of yarn had rolled away under a shrub, making it necessary for Aziraphale to retrieve and follow the thread back to where Crowley waited with a little smile. (He certainly had never used it as an excuse to talk for a few minutes, and Crowley had certainly never dropped a ball on purpose). Nanny had spent afternoons in the parlor with Mrs. Dowling teaching her, helping her make little sweaters and hats for Warlock. She had found a particular knack for tea cosies and before long there was a different one for every teapot in the house, for every day of the year. Crowley had confessed to Aziraphale more than once that they were an eyesore, but that does not explain why one with his initials (with the large J in the middle, even though that's not technically the correct monogram) still appears on the pot whenever Crowley makes breakfast for them on Sundays.

The knots are the only thing that Crowley can't handle. The knots happen when he isn't paying attention and frogged carelessly without wrapping it first, or he got too ahead of himself in a pattern, or too ambitious with a fair isle or intarsia motif. Knots frustrate him. A complicated pattern he can suss out, a mistake in a row he can unpick and try again, but a knot is a roadblock. He simply can't go forward until he sorts it, and he has always hated wasting good yarn. But knots do not respond to threats the way plants do. Knots were a problem for a very long time in his history in fiber craft until quite recently. Now, Crowley can go up to Aziraphale and silently hold out a horribly twisted mess, and Aziraphale will smile softly, put aside his book, and put out his hands. A knot is a puzzle to Aziraphale, engaging in a way that simply knitting is not. He will take the skein and spend a long time examining it from all angles. Then, he will make an experimental poke, a little tug, and slowly, eventually, he will get a start. Crowley will sit and hold out his hands and as the yarn straightens out again, Aziraphale loops it around his knuckles, tying them both together until the knot is gone. 

And Crowley does not mind when their fingers brush.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone's actually called it the devil's stitch (I swear I read it somewhere) BUT there is an old superstition in handcraft that to make a thing perfect invites hubris and bad luck, so you make a purposeful mistake to let the bad luck out.


End file.
